Nigh
by Bellicose Blue
Summary: Because "so close" just wasn't close enough. / the story of the girl from one who almost won the second quarter quell


**A/N:** New format and new character to play with!

* * *

 _then._

She slips out the window the instant the sun has fully set, brushing past the rosebushes that frame the exterior of the house. Her heart is racing, and she's not sure why. It's not like this is something new, after all.

She spends nearly every single night outside, away from her house with its stately columns and priceless windows- real glass- and furniture from the Before, all dark, moody wood and gleaming surfaces that display fingerprints like sins. If you asked her, she couldn't tell you why she does. She just feels _trapped_ in there, caged in luxury, like some sort of exotic bird in a bejeweled cage with bars of gold and false laughter and a perch of diamonds and hands folded in her lap. These nights are the only things that belong to her.

Sometimes she runs, sprinting down the sidewalk that sparkles in the light of day, breathing in that crisp night air that tingles with anticipation, but of what, she's not certain. Sometimes she lies on the grass outside and gazes up at the stars. She loves the moon, of course, but it's too inconstant to rely on. The stars will never leave her.

 _now._

She races through the beautiful woods, dodging around trees draped in blooming vines that perfume the air with their heady scent. The boy in front of her is fast, but she's just as fast and stronger, too. Of course, it's hard for him to run when she's gashed his stomach wide open.

 _then._

 _The Capitol likes pretty tributes_ , her mentor tells her on the train, a statement and a warning. _And you're the prettiest. Make the most of that._ She glances at the other tributes from One- a boy with dark skin who can make her laugh like no one else, a girl with wide blue eyes and striking red hair and the most off-color remarks she's ever heard, a boy with green eyes who always saves the last chocolate muffin for her ever since he found out they were her favorite- and frowns a bit. She _likes_ them, as strange as it sounds. She's trained with them all her life- how could she not? If she's to win, all of these tributes- her _friends_ \- will have to die.

 _now._

He runs for the edge of a cliff she's never seen before, reaching the edge just as she throws her ax. He drops, and whether it's a reaction to her throw or just an inability to stand any longer, she isn't sure. She watches her ax fly into the abyss and raises her now-empty hand to cover the blood pouring from her eye socket. She doesn't need a weapon to kill him now.

 _then._

In One, they have a tradition of giving a new name to the tributes who are to volunteer that year. There's only so many adjectives to go throw before they start repeating names, after all. When the Quarter Quell twist is announced and it's decided she will be one of the lucky four to bring honor to the District, she takes the name of Divine. It's a reference to the deities of old, her mentor explains to her, before the Capitol abolished religion in order to promote unity, and the commentators in the Capitol seize upon that. In interviews, they call her a beauty, a goddess, a blessing, and she shimmers before the Capitol layered in silver and deep plum like the night sky.

 _now._

He's convulsing on the ground, shaking with the throes of early death, and she allows herself to think for the first time that maybe she'll be able to outlast him. Maybe she can win. She's avoided letting herself hope up until now, but now her victory is inevitable. Dry, cracked lips split into a smile.

 _then._

Her mentor, who had gone from the sensible name of Lydia to Asteria ten years prior, helps her navigate the world of the Games. There's so many tricks and traps out there, double-edged words and false compliments and insincere offers of alliances, and she manages to beam and flirt her way out of them while still appearing harmless. It's a common enough saying back in the District that the best weapon is one that goes undetected, and she's only too happy to appear like any other fragile beauty, at least for now. Those who underestimate her won't remain in the Games for long.

 _now._

She stands there waiting for him to die, growing impatient as he thrashes. It's almost anticlimactic. The only sound is the pained rasping of his breath as it leaks out the open side of his throat. They say the world ends not with a bang but with a whimper. _Shouldn't it have happened yet?_ Her senses itch with the need to move, to flee. Something isn't right.

 _then._

She's the first tribute to be interviewed by Caesar, and she thrills the crowd first with her dress- a swirl of black that fades to silver at the ends of the massive train and a neckline that plunges past her ribs- and then with the content of her interview. She's sweet, confident, charming, alluring, everything that the tributes who follow her are not. Caesar calls her a star, and she blushes.

 _now._

She's just raising her broken leg to step backward when something flies out of the cliff. Her ax lodges in her skull before she can even react, much less dodge it like the gutted boy from Twelve had. She doesn't remember falling, but somehow she ends up on the ground.

 _then._

She stands on the platform as the sunlight hits it and is immediately struck by the overwhelming beauty of the arena. But she knows, perhaps better than any tribute there, just how much poison can be concealed by something beautiful.

This is the most dangerous arena ever built.

 _now._

She stares up at the horizon, single remaining eye already beginning to blur with darkness. Somewhere deep inside herself, a young girl is screaming. This is the way the world ends.

 _then._

 _Beauty is pain_ , she thinks as she grabs an ax from the pile near the Cornucopia and steps over the body of the red-haired girl from the train. _Time to hunt_.

 _now._

Right as her vision blackens, she finds a star.


End file.
